Writing Mr. Right

by Wright, Michaela

  Georgia nodded and Cassie headed for the front doors of the auditorium as Georgia answered the familiar question.

  Another reader handed her their book. “Where can I find a Douglas MacCready?”

  “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

  A gaggle of three elated girls snuck into the hall, clutching copies of her book to their chests. Georgia took a deep breath, happy to see the end in sight, and signed the next book to a sweet older woman named Grace.

  “Oh my god, thank ye so much fer letting me in. I couldnae get a ticket fer the life of me.”

  Georgia smiled up at the pretty brunette with crooked teeth. “Of course. Thank you for reading. I appreciate your coming out anyway.”

  “Oh, wouldnae miss it! Makes the evenin a bit better. Got fired earlier, ye see?”

  Georgia looked up into the woman’s face, earnestly concerned. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Ah, nae bother. Boss was a lunatic, apparently. Ye know, he was here claimin he knew ye. Load a rubbish.”

  “Did he now? I’d say I don’t know a lot of crazy Scotsmen, but I’m pretty sure all Scotsmen are at least a smidge crazy.”

  The other people waiting laughed, but this woman just continued. “Nae, I mean it. Was even snooping around the back door, there. To think I mighta shagged him, had I the chance. Now I know better.”

  “Dodged a bullet then. What’s your name?” Georgia asked.

  “Jennifer, but you can sign it Jenny, please.”

  “Alright, Jenny.”

  Georgia turned her eyes to her handwriting, giving the usual flourish to her V.

  “I’ll miss workin in the book store, though. Was a fair pleasure getting paid to read magazines day.”

  Georgia’s hand stilled over the N in Mason. “You worked in a book store?”

  “I did. Royal Mile Bookseller we was called, til the lunatic came and changed the name. Stay away from there. The owner is obsessed wit ye.”

  “What did he change the name to?”

  “Burns Book Shop. Rubbish name, I say.”

  Georgia froze.

  The woman named Jennifer rolled her eyes. “His name’s Garrett. Garrett MacCauley. You know he brought you flowers and the like? Pathetic.”

  Georgia exhaled, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath. She slammed the book shut and handed it back to Jenny. “Thank you so much.”

  “Oh no, thank ye! I can’t wait for the next book!”

  She snuck around the table to pose for a selfie with Georgia, then she was gone, and Georgia couldn’t get through the last few stragglers fast enough.

  “Oh god, Georgia, I didn’t know,” Cassie said, hustling along beside her.

  “No, it’s fine. I know you didn’t.”

  “And I did tell him he could come in, but then I never saw him again.”

  “It’s fine, Cass! Burns Book Shop, can you look that up for me?” Georgia hustled out the backstage door toward the waiting car, a broad smile on her face. She stopped dead just outside, startled by the spray of color at her feet. A dozen or so roses, tulips, and lilies were scattered across the concrete, their stalks twisted and marred.

  “Oh man. Those were the ones he brought for you.”

  Georgia turned to see Cassie frowning. She was beating herself up severely for the evening’s confusion. Though Georgia assured her she needn’t blame herself, the sight of the flowers made her think otherwise. Georgia bent down to them, gathering those that were still salvageable.

  Suddenly, Georgia began to fret. She had fourteen hours until her 10AM flight out of Edinburgh and this was Scotland. Anything that didn’t serve alcohol would be long closed by now, including Burns Book Shop.

  Still, she had to try, didn’t she?

  God damn it, why hadn’t he called in all this time?

  The cab pulled up outside the bookstore and it was as dark as Georgia expected. She demanded a piece of paper from Cassie, and scribbled her hotel and her assistant’s telephone number onto it before slipping it under the book shop door. Then she stood there on the sidewalk, watching down the Royal Mile, as though she might manifest him from thin air if she just longed for him hard enough.

  “You alright, Georgia? Are you ready to go?”

  Georgia took a deep breath and nodded to Cassie. Then she climbed into the car and the driver pulled away from the curb.

  Cassie skimmed through her day planner, pursing her lips. “Cody invited us out for drinks; they’re at the Hanging Bat. Do you want to make an appearance?”

  Georgia shrugged, keeping silence in hopes that she might hear the tell-tale sign of Cassie’s phone ringing as they pulled up outside the hotel. No such luck, yet. “I suppose I can manage that,” she said, piling out of the car. Georgia stopped before the gilded double doors, spotting a Thistle symbol across the glass instead of the familiar Hyatt.

  “This isn’t the Hyatt?”

  Cassie bustled out of the car behind her, notebook and iPhone in hand. “No. We had to switch this morning. You didn’t notice when we checked in?”

  She shook her head. She’d been mildly pre-occupied. Cassie rushed forward to open the doors, bumping into the driver who swiftly appeared at her side. The sound of her iPhone skittering across the pavement stopped them both in their tracks.

  “Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit.”

  Cassie scooped the gadget up, turned it over, and the crestfallen expression betrayed everything. Georgia closed her eyes.

  “Damn it! Hang on, maybe it will turn on.”

  But Georgia knew it wouldn’t. She stood there, a strange serenity washing over her. She’d barreled off to Inverness to see this man for whom her heart sang and he’d been gone. She discovered that he tried to see her and was thwarted at every turn, and now, despite knowing it was a slim chance that he would even find the note under his book shop’s door, if he did, he would have the wrong hotel, and a phone number to a phone that no longer worked.

  Sorry, Sam, she thought. You’re proclamation isn’t coming true this time.

  “Fuck a duck! It’s dead. I’m so sorry, Georgia. God damn it!”

  “It’s alright. We’re flying home tomorrow. We can grab you a new one in Boston.”

  “Shit. I should have to pay for it. It was my fault -”

  “Nonsense,” Georgia said, and the words were oddly soft. Cassie continued to regale her with apologies and assurances that she could retrieve much of the necessary contacts and emails from her laptop, but Georgia was past listening. Her thoughts had gone far away. She replayed the words of the driver that morning, “If he’s the one, he’ll turn up.”

  And if he’s not?

  Perhaps this clusterfuck of fate was proof that he wasn’t, she thought. Perhaps this was serendipity in reverse. Keeping her apart from the fellow that still haunted her dreams, because he wasn’t the one. If he was, it wouldn’t be this hard, right? Despite the hurt in her heart at the thought, she squared her shoulders, and let go.

  She bid Cassie a good night and headed for bed. She had no interest in the Hanging Bat anymore.

  Despite an uncharacteristically warm summer night and her Scottish hotel room’s lack of air conditioning, the discomfort wasn’t what kept Georgia awake. She was thinking of Garrett. Had he gotten the note? Had he gone to the Hyatt looking for her? Had he called Cassie’s phone over and over to find her? Probably not. He hadn’t called in all this time, why would he chase her now? Still, she couldn’t help but pine for the man she wished he had been. She glanced at the clock – 12:02. Sleep wasn’t coming. She needed a drink.

  Georgia threw on a pair of jeans and headed out for a walk.

  Summer nights in Scotland rarely grew full dark, and Georgia meandered down the sidewalks under a purple sky. She made her way down past the Scott memorial, past the Gallery, and up the meandering hill toward the Royal Mile. Even after her steely decision earlier that evening, she felt drawn to the little book shop.
She made her way up the winding hill, her breath getting hoarse with the effort. Finally, she climbed a tall flight of stairs and found herself in the courtyard of the Writer’s Museum, tucked away in a close off the Royal Mile. She’d been here before in earlier visits to Scotland, roaming the city alone before her book signing. Now it loomed, ancient and foreboding in the dark. She stopped a moment, tickled to have accidentally stumbled on the Writer’s Museum again after all these months and yet still unable to go inside. She could hear the distant thrum of laughter and music, one of the nearby pubs still going strong. She set the sound as her destination when a strange chill ran up her spine.

  “Don’t think they’re open at this hour.”

  The sudden sound, the unlikelihood of someone being there at this hour, of being alone with a stranger looming in the dark should have startled her – even terrified her. Yet, Georgia didn’t startle. The chill was her warning; an inexplicable knowledge she couldn’t refute. To hear the voice, to have that chill proven true, was enough to rattle her whole being. She swallowed and turned to face Garrett MacCauley, sitting just a few yards away, sprawled out on a bench in the courtyard.

  ***

  “The Hanging Bat, ae?” Garrett asked.

  “Indeed. That’ll be where we’re all heading. She’s planning to attend as far as I know,” the man said.

  His name was Cody Mitchell, and from what he said, he was well acquainted with the evening’s guest of honor.

  “Do ye know what time?”

  “Sorry, mate. Just heard from her assistant. I think they’re making a quick stop at some book shop, first, but that’s just up on the mile. Not far.”

  Garrett was off. “Thanks muchly!”

  It was illogical, sure. Why on earth would Georgia be visiting his book shop – at this hour especially? Still, he had to be sure. He ran much of the way, his kilt flitted about his knees, the sporran bouncing against his groin as he rounded the corners and bounded across the street. His shop stood as it always did - high windows, various book posters, heavy green double doors.

  No Georgia to be seen.

  His phone buzzed in his sporran and he pulled it out.

  Any luck, then?

  Barry was on the other side of the world writing hard hitting travel articles about the weather in Bali. Despite being on the other side of the world, he demanded to be kept informed on the subject of Georgia Kilduff. Or more aptly, on Garrett’s future millionaire wife, as he liked to call her.

  No. Didn’t get it. He responded.

  He unlocked the door and slipped inside, making his way back to the office. He turned on the light, fretting over whether to stay there and wait, or simply hustle along to The Hanging Bat. Where would he be most likely to find her?

  Well, she’s in the city, brother. You find her!

  He chuckled at the message, shaking his head.

  I’m trying, Bear. Christ, he thought.

  Garrett thought better of sitting in his office, waiting for a visit that might never come. He stood in his office doorway, watching the front of the shop, as he flicked off the light. There was something on the floor just inside the doors.

  Garrett snatched up the piece of paper and read it a thousand times in the span of two seconds. She’d been there. She’d come to see him.

  He reached into his sporran for his phone; it was gone. Then he ran into the office and snatched it up from the desk drawer where he left it during store hours. He started dialing the numbers, but was so agitated that he had to hang up and redial twice.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail box of Cassandra Seaton. Please leave a detailed message with your name and your phone number, and I will return your call as soon as possible.”

  Garrett rushed out the door, hailing a cab just up the Royal Mile.

  The pompous bastard at the Hyatt did little more than look down his nose at Garrett. “I’m sorry, sir, but I assure you we have no one here by that name.”

  “Alright, what about Cassandra Seaton. Do you have a Cassandra Seaton?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, perhaps you have the wrong hotel.”

  Garrett growled at the man, brandishing the note in Georgia’s handwriting, but was met with further disinterest and a quiet threat of calling the Polis if he continued to berate him.

  Garrett dug into his pockets for a second cab fare and piled out a few moments later at the Hanging Bat pub.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail box of Cassandra Seaton. Please leave a detailed message -”

  “Hey. This is Garrett MacCauley calling for Georgia Kilduff. She left a note at my book shop this evening and I was just hoping to catch her. If you could have her call me -”

  “If you are satisfied with your message, press one.”

  This was the third time the voicemail had cut him off. He was growing so agitated, he almost snapped at the bartender when she brought him his pint. A hand planted on his shoulder as he made to press two, and his thumb tapped the wrong number, sending the half-finished message.

  “Ey, ya made it!”

  Garrett turned to find Cody Mitchell, face ruddy from drink, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Aye, I did.”

  “Well, good on you. Here, let me introduce you ‘round.”

  There were writers from all parts of the globe, most of them men, all of them drunk, hovering around parts of the bar. Despite his usual affection for just such artists, Garrett noticed one writer was absent.

  Georgia wasn’t there.

  “Yeah, I couldn’t tell ya where she ended up. Said she was comin, but I haven’t got her number, man. Bummer. She’s a sexy number, ain’t she?”

  Garrett bristled slightly, but recovered. Cody was several inches shorter than Garrett, but that didn’t stop him from wrapping an arm across Garrett’s shoulders and wheeling him around the place.

  “She’ll turn up, she’ll turn up,” Cody kept assuring him, refusing to relinquish his choke hold for well over an hour as a scholar from Findhorn broke out in recitation of the letter of Rabbie Burns to his beloved Agnes. Garrett listened for the first fifteen minutes or so, then he was lost to his thoughts.

  I can say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a person in my life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. Tonight I was to have had that very great pleasure – I was intoxicated with the idea -

  Garrett let those words play a moment, thinking he might’ve written them himself once upon a time. God damn it, why hadn’t he gotten to the venue, the shop, the coffee stained book sooner. Why had the fates kept him from calling until the number was no longer hers, until weeks had passed and he’d quite likely lost any affection she might’ve bore him had he called?

  He was a fucking idiot.

  Two hours in the company of drunk writers and Rabbie Burns scholars, and Garrett was ready to gouge out his own eyes.

  Have you shagged her yet?

  Garrett glowered down at his phone. No, you twat. Do you ever sleep?

  Barry responded immediately. Not when I’m on standby to fly home and help you track down this lassie of yours. Now fuck off out of that Burns sausage party and go to her hotel or some shite!

  Garrett shook his head, ignoring the last text. He finished the last of his pint and took his leave around half eleven.

  It had cooled somewhat, but the air was still heavy. He found himself creeping back toward the center of town, rather than West and home. He tried the number on the slip of paper again, even called the Hyatt one more time, being hung up on the moment he mentioned Georgia’s name.

  Despite a couple pints and the late hour, Garrett was painfully sober, weighed down by thoughts of loss. He’d missed her. By some twisted act of fate, he’d missed her, and there was no telling when he might have another chance to cross her path again. He replayed those words from Rabbie Burns, shaking his head at the tinge of sorrow they gave him. If only he’d written those words when he had the chance, things might
be different tonight. Might be different every night.

  Garrett found himself meandering up the Royal Mile, slipping into a chip shop for some munch. The words of Rabbie Burns drew him down a familiar close, and he settled onto a bench with his late night meal, under the looming shadow of the Writer’s Museum – the place where he’d first heard that very Burns letter read.

  He ate, tried the number one more time, then slumped across the bench, his arm over his eyes, and accepted defeat.

  The sound of shuffling feet echoed across the high walls a few moments later, and Garrett snuck a peek at the approaching figure. It was a woman in jeans and a flannel shirt, her dark, messy hair tucked back with a clip. She stopped just outside the museum, staring up at its tower, silent in the dark.

  He took a deep breath, deciding to speak rather than let her discover him and be startled. “Don’t think they’re open at this hour.”

  She turned to him, seemingly unfazed. “No? That seems a shame. I’d imagine this is the hour many writers get their best work done.”

  She was American. That didn’t help his forlorn mood. Another god damn American. Garrett sat upright, turning to face her, the folds of his kilt rolling over his knees.

  “Ye American?”

  “I am. You homeless?”

  He chuckled, glancing down at the empty Styrofoam of his supper. “Nae. Just had a rough night.”

  “Ah, well late nights at the pub will do that to you. Here I thought you were just hovering in dark alleys, waiting for unsuspecting ladies to pounce on.”

  He laughed again. She had a smoky voice and an easy sarcastic air about her, something he found so rare and so endearing. Strange to meet another American woman with the same wit twice in one lifetime, he thought. He leaned forward on the bench, straining to make her out, but his eyes were spotty from the weight of his arm across his face a moment before. Her face remained in shadow.

  ‘I’ve had one too many pints to do any respectable pouncing.”

  She smiled, and the little light the close offered showed across her smile – a smile he’d imagined a thousand times in his mind.

  “That’s a shame,” she said.